


All those things we never talk about

by cucumber_of_doom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7876504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/pseuds/cucumber_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal let their wounds heal in a cramped little apartment somewhere in Argentina. Domesticity comes easier than Will expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All those things we never talk about

**Author's Note:**

> This fic fought me hard enough to just want to be done with it at this point. It started as a joke about Hannibal being happy about playing house but somehow turned emotional, like always. It is also my belated #itsstillbeautiful entry.  
> Anyway, have fun.

Adjusting to life in Argentina turns out to be easier than Will expected. He sheds his name like dead skin, leaving it behind somewhere on their journey down the coast. To the outside world, Will Graham is dead, only allowed to live behind the walls of the little apartment they share under the names of Brent and Jonathan Edwards. The place isn't too bad, on the fifth floor of a relatively new building, but not the grandeur Hannibal clearly wants to pamper him with. It is alright. Will knows they will stay only long enough to lick their wounds and heal. Long enough for Hannibal to access the funds Will is sure he still has stashed away somewhere. He doesn't care for details, not in this. For him and for now it is enough to simply know Hannibal alive and close. Will is in no hurry to disturb whatever semblance of normality they accomplished. 

Will stops at the grocery store on his way home from the garage he found work at. Eduardo, the man owning the garage, had been nice enough to let Will – Brent now - prove himself despite his broken Spanish. Between that and the man's patchy English they communicated well enough, mostly through pointing at whatever engine part needs fixing. It does not pay much but gives him something to do and for now they can use the money. It's nice, working with his hands. As long as he keeps busy, he won't think too much.

Will walks into the corner store, picks up a basket and makes his way through the isles. From his jeans pocket he pulls a piece of paper, filled with Hannibal's elegant script, standing at odds with the cheap, lined paper torn from the coffee stained notebook in their kitchen.

Eggs, cheese, bread and milk land in the basket, joining the packet of cheap, artificially-colored candies Will picks up for himself. He mostly likes them for how much their presence annoys Hannibal, but throws some green beans on top as a peace offering and walks to the register to pay.

Hannibal and he compromise on top-shelf stuff and fresh produce where they can get it, but neither of them is up to hunting down any finer ingredients yet. Finding the best butcher and baker in town will have to wait until Hannibal is back up to full strength. It won't be long, not if Hannibal shares the itch beneath his skin to move and do something. Anything, really, which is one of the reasons, Will started working for Eduardo.

Will has spend enough time in bed recovering from the various injuries sustained over the years to last him a lifetime. Now he needs to move. Distract himself, maybe, from thinking too much about whatever fragile truce he reached with Hannibal. Living with the man shouldn't feel as comfortable as it does. It is making him uneasy, like comfort is not something he deserves. Not with Hannibal, at least. Not with all the blood shed between the two of them.

The air greeting him on the street is not hot, but tastes stale. Too many humans living too closely together. He likes the people here, as much as he likes anyone, but Will still prefers their absence over anything else. They ask no uncomfortable questions, at least. As long as he turns up for work and the bills are paid, he and Hannibal are nothing more than two more residents. Not that their neighbors have seen a lot of Hannibal since they moved in. The man seems happy enough to lay low and let his insides mend back together at whatever pace it takes.

Will climbs up the stairs to their apartment - the elevator being out of order again - having regained enough of his strength to only get a little bit winded on the way up.

When Will opens the front door, he is greeted by classical music playing at a low volume, the air saturated with the smell of freshly baked bread. He finds Hannibal sitting at the little kitchen table, his leg in the cast propped up on one of the other chairs, the crutches leaning against the wall next to him. A now familiar sight to come home to.

“Hello, Will. You are home early,” Hannibal greets him, then turns back to chopping vegetables. “How was work?” he adds after a second and Will slumps down into the only free chair left. The room is cramped, like everything else in the apartment, but for now it is home. Hannibal makes sure the illusion stays alive.

“Nothing much. Changed some tires and Eduardo had me leave early, because there were no customers. He can't afford to pay me for sitting on my ass. Picked up the stuff you asked for, thought,” Will says, unpacking the shopping bag onto the table next to the cutting board. There is not much room to spread them out, but Will takes them out of the bag anyway, barely avoiding to bump into the hand Hannibal is holding the knife in.

Hannibal merely nods and continues with his task.

“Thank you. I am making cornbread to go with the soup,” he says, not needing to point at the humming oven at his back. The bread smells delicious and Will's stomach rumbles audibly. He busies himself with the groceries, standing to sort them into their respective places in the cupboard. It feels weirdly domestic, something he did with Molly many times, not like anything he associates with the times spent with Hannibal in the past. He plays along anyway, thankful for the easy flow of the conversation.

“Cornbread? Are you trying to pander to the southern boy in me?” he says, his back turned to Hannibal while he rearranges the contents of the fridge to fit the green beans. He remembers a time, he would not have dared to turn his back. He also remembers times, when Hannibal was the only one he trusted there. It is always both, with them.

Hannibal, calm as ever, doesn't take the bait. He never does, these days. It is unnerving, in a way.

“Maybe. It is also something I have not tried before,” he explains, the last of the bell peppers turning into neat little cubes to be added to the pot. Hannibal winces when he stands to do that, still managing to maintain his dignity while hobbling the few paces to the hearth, using only one of his crutches for aid. He turns down the heat to let the soup simmer collapses back into his chair. 

Watching him struggle with such a mundane task feels all kind of wrong to Will. If anything, the man had always been graceful, even in his prison overall. In the end he takes pity, helping Hannibal to prop his leg back up before sitting down.

Hannibal had taken more damage when they killed the dragon and his wounds took longer to heal than Will's. He had also broken his leg and some ribs during their fall from the cliff, his body taking most of the force when they hit the water. Prison had not been kind to him either, but Will does not find it in him to feel remorse for that part of their history. Waiting for Jack had been Hannibal's choice and his alone. Throwing them into the water, that had been Will and he took responsibility for the foolish plan. But they survived and here they are.

“You know, you could do the shopping, if you are well enough,” Will suggests, fiddling with the carton of milk in front of him. He should finish putting away the groceries; it would be the decent thing to do. Will is no longer sure how much of a decent person he is. Not as long as Hannibal is in the equation and he has no intention of letting the man go again. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and so on.

Hannibal settles back down, the crutch clacking loudly against the wooden table.

„Your Spanish is still appalling: you need to practice more. The best way to learn a language is still through interacting with the locals,“ he says. 

Will groans and rubs his hands over his face, peeking out between the fingers when Hannibal doesn't go on. It's not like him to let the topic of Will's lacking Spanish go.

“Aren't you not, I don't know, frustrated to be stuck inside for so long? Because I am getting frustrated just thinking about it. I've spent enough time taking it easy and I haven't spent the last three years locked away from the rest of the world,” he says.

Hannibal only looks at him, the faintest hint of amusement on his face.

“I am getting better and it is not as if there is a shortcoming of distractions. This kitchen may lack many things, but it is workable and I greatly enjoy being able to practice this particular skill again,” Hannibal explains and Will blinks. The realization hits him like a punch in the gut.

“You are enjoying this. Staying at home. Having dinner ready when I come back from work,” Will says after a pause. It's an observation, nothing less and nothing more, but still makes something flutter in his chest. “Are we playing house now, Hannibal?”

“Brent and Jonathan Edwards are married. People would expect a certain level of domesticity,” Hannibal says and Will leans back, mind working as he takes in the evidence. The dinners. The clean little apartment. Him never having a thing left to do Hannibal is physically capable of doing himself.

“I am not talking about keeping up the appearance, Hannibal. I am talking about us. About you. You like... this,” he says, making a sweeping gesture to indicate their apartment. Their temporary little fake life. The thin gold band on his hand suddenly itches and he touches it as if to reassure him it is still there.

Hannibal leans forward and Will can only wonder how he manages to make it look coordinated with his leg in a cast. His movements are not as precise as usual, but sitting down he still manages a certain grace.

“If I say that I do, will that change anything? I am still not well enough to venture out too far, not with the crutches and the elevator breaking down every few days.”

Will sighs, raking a hand through his hair. It is shorter than it used to be, but he needed to change his appearance somehow and it will grow again. And Hannibal has a point with the elevator, only that Will knows their apartment being this far up has nothing to do with Hannibal staying confined to it. If he really wanted to walk out into the city, he would.

“I don't know. It is… odd,” Will says for a lack of a better word. It is very odd, thinking of Hannibal being content with playing the role of the dutiful spouse, turning the tiny apartment into a home for them. Being content with… what? Cooking for him? The thought is unsettling, but it _is_ new information to help solve the puzzle that is their serene cohabitation.

Will takes a breath, then lets it out slowly. What he wants for them is a future. The price for that is already paid; he left no bridges unburned, there is no going back to his old life. He does not want to.

“I like coming home to you,” he says and it feels like a confession. Maybe it is. They still need to find a rhythm that doesn't involve knifes and bloodshed and this could be a start. Something non-deadly shared between them; a stable foundation for whatever they deside to build apon.

“I hoped so,” Hannibal answers, adding nothing more to the statement. It's what they are good at; talking and not saying the things they truly mean. In their new life, Will thinks, there is no room for obscuring their intentions. In the past they have caused each other too much pain by obscuring their meaning 

“What does that make us?” Will asks, leaning his head onto a hand, watching Hannibal. He is still not used to seeing Hannibal this thin. The years in the BHCI left their mark on the other man the same way, Hannibal left his own marks on Will. Ugly and indelible and ultimately a proof of love.

“It makes us whatever we want to be. There is opportunity in starting anew, a blank canvas waiting to be filled in with your desires. One of my desires is to provide you with a comfortable home. A place you enjoy returning to. It is the least I can do as long as I am incapable of accompanying you on your ventures.”

“You enjoy the novelty of it. Caring for someone instead of devouring them, playing at being ordinary. We are anything but, Hannibal.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Not directly. Rightfully it should set me on edge, like anything out of the ordinary you do. Past experience tells me to be careful, that you are manipulating me again. You are actually being successful, by the way, but this time it does not scare me, because for once we share a goal. A future leaving room for both of us, alive and well and in the same place. Is that not what we both want, Hannibal? In whatever form it may take.”

Despite playing at being the long married couple, they have not ventured further down that particular path. When Will first pulled them to shore, freezing, broken and bleeding, clinging to each other on the narrow, stony patch of beach, they had kissed. Exhausted, in pain and high on adrenaline he had found Hannibal's lips, chapped, too cold and salty with blood and seawater. They had laid there, limbs entangled, until Chiyoh had found them, both of them weak with blood loss and physical trauma.

It might be time, Will thinks, to try again. Maybe to prove to himself that he can still be tender without having to immediately balance it with violence. That he is still as whole as he will ever be.

“Will you let me try something?” Will asks. His fingers twitch nervously when Hannibal nods. Will clears his throat, then scoots closer. His hand comes to lie on top of Hannibal's as he leans across the table. This time, when his lips touch Hannibal's, they don’t taste of blood, just a faint hint of spices from where he had tasted the soup. It is slow, unhurried, lacking the desperation from last time, but Will does not mind. He pulls back a few seconds later and lets out a relieved sigh, his fingers tracing the matching gold band on Hannibal's hand.

He opens his eyes to find Hannibal smiling.

“I thought maybe you don’t remember,” Hannibal says and Will shakes his head, because how could he?

“There is not a detail about that night I don’t remember. Or anything I’d like to forget.”

It is true and Will feels lighter for saying it out loud. They still fit together like they did that night on the cliff, but are both in less pain. When Hannibal strokes his cheek he nuzzles into his palm, the scar tissue still tender to the touch. He breathes out, eyes finding Hannibal's.

“I won’t walk away, Hannibal,” he says. “We’ve gone through too much to get here, I won’t throw it away and I know you know that.”

Hannibal lifts Will’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the wedding band. If this is what them touching is like now, Will is more than okay with it. No knifes, just them.

“Will you take the cornbread out of the oven, please? I would not want it to burn,” Hannibal asks with a coy grin and Will can’t help but chuckle.

“Of course,” he says, disentangling himself from the other, letting the touch linger as long as possible. He can have this now, Will thinks and fights down a smile when turning off the oven. They will figure this out, whatever _this_ turns out to be. Today is a good day and maybe, if the look on Hannibal's face is anything to go by, will be getting even better.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see me rambling about writing and a lot of random blogging, visit my [tumblr](http://cucumber-of-doom.tumblr.com/) because that's where the cool kids are.


End file.
